


Don't Look at The Mirror

by Simon_Northcote



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adults can't see the blood, Blood, M/M, PTSD, Scars, Trauma, Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 21:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14198133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simon_Northcote/pseuds/Simon_Northcote
Summary: Stan knew it wasn’t fair to blame them, but whenever his mother hugged him, concerned about her son putting bandages around his perfectly fine face, and he felt the blood, still warm, leak through his shirt, from her hands to his cold skin, he wanted to scream.





	Don't Look at The Mirror

When Stan decided that it was time to take his bandages off, after almost a year of wearing them for apparently no reason, Eddie was right beside him, holding his hand, in front of the bathroom mirror. Stan was shaking. He didn’t want to see what was under the fabric. He never saw it. He didn’t look into the mirror when he changed them, when they got dirty, when his blood leaked through them and dripped all over the floor and the furniture, and later, when his parents left prints when they walked over it, when they touched something with their bloodstained hands. Stan knew it wasn’t fair to blame them, but whenever his mother hugged him, concerned about her son putting bandages around his perfectly fine face, and he felt the blood, still warm, leak through his shirt, from her hands to his cold skin, he wanted to scream.   
It was like a mental restraint, holding his hands to the sink and his mind to the events of last year, chaining his lungs together with black strings to keep them from functioning. But he could ignore them, most of the time. If he got distracted enough, if he forgot for a few minutes, then he could return to his old life, and for a blissful moment, nothing hurt.   
That was, until he looked into the mirror.  
He couldn’t look into the mirror, because every time he glanced at his reflection. He saw It, standing behind him, cheerfully waving one hand and holding a balloon in the other one. He saw Her, with her flute and her fangs, mercilessly digging into his skin, tearing his flesh apart.  
And then, the lights…  
Eddie stroked the back of his hand with his thumb and whispered something that Stan didn’t hear. He nodded, and Eddie gently tugged at his bandages. Stan’s grip on the sink tightened and he closed his eyes, letting Eddie’s hands work on him, and his soft, warm touch somehow keeping him grounded. He frantically looked for Eddie’s hand, his eyelids still pressed tight together, and wrapped his fingers around his wrist. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was likely hurting Eddie, but Eddie kissed his forehead and gently caressed his hand, using his free one to take off the fabric.  
Eddie’s thumb played with Stan’s knuckles and touched his nails and the back of his hand, moving in circular motions, and Stan felt the strings loosen around his ribcage.  
Eddie finished his work with the bandages. His breath hitched, and the movements of his fingers stopped.  
Stan’s stomach dropped. His blood went cold, panic washing over him.  
Eddie’s shaky breath hit him. He took his hand and held tight.  
“Stan…” he whispered. Stan was shivering again. Eddie held both of his hands still, but it was a hard task, considering they were trembling, too.  
Eddie wrapped his arms around his neck, and Stan sobbed into his shoulder. He didn’t know what was going on and he was way too terrified to ask.   
He didn’t want to. He shouldn’t have. But for a fraction of a second, Stan blinked.  
The mirror was cursed, or so it seemed to him. Eddie was still holding him, but he wasn’t holding him. He wasn’t holding Stan. There was no way that monster was Stan. Stan didn’t have little spots, scars left by hundreds of little fangs, around his face. Stan’s hair wasn’t stained by blood, neither. The sight wasn’t human, and it made him nauseous.   
Who was that?  
Who was that, in the mirror? Who had stolen his body and turned it into some gross and disgusting vessel for dead eyes and constricted lungs, paralyzed by fear?   
And behind him, there was an inhuman creature, from beyond time and space, haunting him in his lungs and the back of his eyes and the scars of his face.  
It smiled at him and waved. Its hands were blood-stained.  
“Did you miss me, Stanley?” it asked. “You won’t have to miss me anymore. You’ll see me every day! Whenever you look into the mirror, there I’ll be!” It laughed and it sounded like an evil flute, filled with smoke instead of air.  
“S-Stan, don’t look at the mirror” Eddie whimpered, tightening his grip around him.   
It laughed again, before Stan closed his eyes again and buried his head in Eddie’s shoulder, completely unable to breathe. His chest hurt and he was starting to feel dizzy. Broken sobs shook through him, and although he couldn’t see It anymore, its laugh reverberated inside the shell of his ear, leaking into his skull through the little holes in his skin, filling his head with the sound of a broken flute. The black strings tightened, burning into his flesh. And this time, these restraints physically hurt… And that wasn't supposed to happen. He could literally feel his ribs breaking, his lungs gasping for air, and burning inside of him, marking him forever, with fangs around his head and the deadlights making their prints inside his eyes, so he would always see them. Always, always, always… Whenever he looked into the mirror, the creature that was stolen his face would be there, cheerfully waving at him, and holding a flute and a balloon with her free hand.


End file.
